


The Life and Times of Lord Frederic Wolfgang Nightray

by tiniestdormouse



Series: Borderlands [4]
Category: Pandora Hearts
Genre: Character Study, Family Drama, Gen, Psychological Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 13:25:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 10,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13272357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiniestdormouse/pseuds/tiniestdormouse
Summary: Debonair.Diplomat.(Spy.)Heir Apparent to the Nightray Dukedom.The recollections of a life, in pieces.Writing archive connected to the Borderlands series.





	1. An introduction, of sorts, by the author

**Author's Note:**

> This is the archive of all the extended writings from my Fred Nightray tumblr between 2011- 2014. Most of them came from writing prompts where people asked Fred questions about his life and relations to other people in the world of Pandora Hearts. They are archived here in the order in which they were received. There is no straight timeline or reading order (unless mentioned in the notes).
> 
> All of these writings are in-universe with The Borderlands series, but can be read outside of them.

I've broken the single rule that a man of my calling should never commit.

That is, to keep open records.

My impressions here can be interpreted as a vainglorious attempt at the self-fulfillment of my purpose in life. I doubt that these tales and observations have any likelihood of gaining significance to the greater readership outside of the societal gossip columnist and the pedantic biographer.

This record is not a confession. These are not ego-bloating entertainments, tales spun by old men by winter fires during their twilight years. I do not know what to make of my words, except as testaments to the quotidian and the extraordinary.

Nevertheless, perhaps these details will resonate with you, in my feeble attempt at naming myself witness to the events of my era.

These writings, are and will be, imperfect, for the older I get, the more aware I become of my limitations and the limitations of others around me.

Perhaps this is a good thing to acknowledge, the boundaries that which seal ourselves off from one another.

And thus, I relate my memories unto you.

Make of them what you will.

* * *

 

 _We do not remember days; we remember moments._ ~Cesare Pavese,  The Burning Brand


	2. I. Rufus Barma

Rufus Barma presided over my trial for the Raven; it must've been a show of pride on my father's part to invite him to represent Pandora and to display his first-born son, military-trained and immaculately groomed for life in service. My entire life, I had prepared to tame the notorious Chain that had evaded capture by my father and my grandfather; the family name rested on my shoulders. I was a prideful whelp to be sure at that age, cocky and inwardly sneered at the fat, bouncing man who showed up to bear witness for me (only years later was it revealed to my knowledge that this was a false front Lord Barma presented to the public). I remember giving a formal bow to him, while incredulously thinking how someone so corpulent and so intrusively brash could act as the head of Pandora.

Then came the ordeal, which, according to witnesses, was terribly brief, but for my young soul, felt like days trapped in darkness. I still shudder when recalling my first – and only – time in the Abyss….but I won't speak of that here.

But what I'll never forget is how that fat bastard puppet stared right into my bloody visage when I was thrown out of the Doorway afterward, and how he gave a long, drawn out whistle and said: "Interesting… quite interesting indeed…."


	3. II. Xerxes Break

Mr. Break and I are similarly close in age (this is only a surmise of my own opinion, for, like many other personal details of his life, Mr. Break keeps that fact to himself. His Pandora dossier contains too many odd gaps for my own comfort. Must remind Lord Barma of this next time we meet.) Despite us sharing about the same number of years, his diet and his daily attitude is that of a small child's. And yet it was I who was played the fool, admittedly, when I once challenged him to a drinking match during holiday festivities at Pandora headquarters.

I assumed that Mr. Break's constitution would be stunted from his eating habits and the tendency of sugar to increase the efficiency of alcohol, but he took me through shot for shot through seventeen rounds of triple-distilled vodka. Somewhere between the eighteenth and nineteenth shots, I suddenly found myself at the Nightray manor with a tongue like sandpaper and a splitting headache (my valet accomplished the Herculean task of bringing me home). I returned later that day to Pandora to find Mr. Break perfectly fine and even a bit snide at my condition.

Later, I realized the fiend had been drinking water the whole time.


	4. III. Gilbert Nightray

Gilbert had a habit of slouching which I helped reform. I first noticed during one of my visits; it must be one of those commoner habits that the Vessalius household never properly trained out of him, which is obviously a sign of lax management on Lord Zai's part, considering Gilbert was supposed to know better manners as one of the upstairs staff.  
  
The process was alarmingly simple, actually. I had stayed at the manor for an extended period during the hunting season. Upon leaving for a morning ride or an evening hunt, whenever I would catch Gilbert reposing in one of those moods of his in the library or the parlor or even while eating alone in the kitchen, I would slip behind him unawares and bark in his ear, _"At attention!"_ with a snap of my riding crop upon the nearest surface available (usually the back of his chair, or the tabletop right by his hand). After a couple months of that, his posture improved greatly, and he'd always straighten up his form upon seeing me for years after.


	5. IV. Vanessa Nightray

Vanessa and I shared a common bond for the free-spirited love of nature, unlike Claude who preferred to be surrounded by dusty tomes, Ernest who enjoyed cosmopolitan delights, and Elliot who tackled the training ground and the gymnasium. In fact, she is a much more skillful rider than any of her brothers, and both our adoration of the wilderness and our fondness for equines have resulted in many an afternoon riding through the forests and hills of the Nightray estate.

Most interestingly enough was she taught herself how to ride astride a horse, like a man, as opposed to sidesaddle as what was wont for a young woman. I know Mother would protest with a resigned sigh whenever both of us would enter, she and I dressed alike in our equestrian gear. Vanessa pretended not to mind, but I knew Mother's reaction always upset her. In response, for her coming-of-age ceremony, I gifted her with a full set of riding clothes, cut for a feminine figure though masculine in form. She'd taken to the style greatly and has worn it often since then.


	6. V. Ada Vessalius

  
Through it is unavoidable that the Nightray House and the Vessalius House would need to associate with each other (particularly with our placement at Pandora), Father always had a tumultuous relationship with that family. We dance a game of public social appearances and personal disdain, which was how I ended up at the funeral services for Lady Vessalius to represent the family and not my parents. That was the only occasion I had caught a glimpse of baby Ada, barely two years old and suffering from a pain that no child should undergo. She and her brother, Oz Vessalius, were obligated to stand by the casket, and she kept tugging her brother's hand, asking where they were taking their mother, and her tiny voice kept getting more and more panicked as the service continued. Her uncle eventually had to carry her away from the church grounds as she started to scream (Oz, the brave boy, hadn't even shed a tear, I noticed).

The scene was heart-wrenching to witness.


	7. VI. Sharon Rainsworth

Now, let me state here that I am not envious over Chain-ownership; whatever traumas and disappointments I had undergone as a young man after my own ordeal has long been dealt with, and I have moved on to more productive means of dedication for my own life and occupation. There was a moment, however, that I did feel a jealous spark, and that was when Lady Sharon Rainsworth presented Equus for an open demonstration at Pandora.

The trial had a great affect upon her fragile constitution, and at her demonstration, conducted weeks after her contract was made, she remained rather wan and couldn't even stand to bow when Lord Barma escorted the representative from the royal family into the room. Nevertheless, when the lights were dimmed, and that divine creature manifested itself from the shadows that had pooled in the room, there was some inner light that bloomed inside that girl upon seeing her Chain, which made a great impression upon me.


	8. VII. Vincent Nightray

  
Young Vincent has always been the queer sort, in my opinion. Father had always been rather close-lipped when it came to my pressing inquires about why we should accept a street rat into the household and furthermore, reward him the privileges of nobility; I was sure for whatever justification Father had in keeping Vincent around, he could've easy granted him a position as kitchen-boy as opposed to ward.

There was a refinement I tried to instill somehow. A few scant weeks after his adoption in the family was finalized, I took him on a carriage ride into town to outfit him with proper clothes suited for a boy of his new rank. Several times I tried engaging him in conversation on the ride there, but to no avail, with the child staring indifferently out the window. His attitude did not change once we got into town and he drifted away from myself and his nursemaid to disappear in the crowd several times, much to my frustration.

The only emotional response the boy seemed to have was when I found him upon the fifth time of his wandering off that afternoon. Vincent had collapsed in the dirty street, shredding the sleeves of his frockcoat viciously with a pair of scissors and making high-pitched screeching noises. The maid and I had no idea what prompted such a vicious reaction; I asked him, accommodatingly, if he wanted to go inside and see the traveling circus that stood across the way, but upon hearing that recommendation he only wailed even louder and swiped the twin blades at me. Luckily, I took that moment to snatch the instrument from his hands. I picked him up bodily and slung him across my shoulder to make a hurried retreat to the carriage.

The little savage kept screaming the entire time until we returned to the manor.


	9. VIII. Elliot Nightray

  
I was planning to leave on an overseas journey that would take me away from the country for almost a year, and in anticipation of that, I made one final visit to the family home before my extended travels. Elliot, who was about nine at the time, was in a particularly foul mood, and when Elliot gets in a foul mood, he tends to be quite expressive about it physically: stomping about the manor, slamming doors, kicking hallway runners out of sorts and picking fights with the stable boys.

I caught him starting a vicious argument with one of them for not mucking out the stall of his riding mare that morning; Elliot usually doesn't ride, and the poor stable boy was most likely in the process of finishing oiling my saddle in prep for my own daily exercises. Normally, I would always side with family over the help, but that moment, I knew Elliot was fuming about something else; hence, I grabbed him by the shirt collar like a mother cat would to her kit and announced, "Elliot, we are going for a walk."  
  
He refused to admit anything was amiss while we strolled through the back gardens of the manor and instead complained about various things: how Ernest and Claude never seemed to be home, or that Vanessa kept practicing her flute in the parlor whenever he wanted to practice piano, or how the cook was trying to feed him those dreadful beets again and he didn't take to that at all… until finally, he collapsed upon on a stone bench and buried his head in his knees.

I inquired as to what was the matter (suspecting that his temper tantrums were more than a child's fussiness), and he said in a rather despondent tone, "Fred, can I go traveling with you?"  
  
"It's rather far," I said, not outrightly refusing his request, knowing that Elliot was a boy who needed to ramble out his rage for awhile before getting to the root of his discomfort. "I don't think Mother and Father would approve."  
  
"Who cares what they think? Besides, Father's better off without me."  
  
"Now where does that preposterous statement come from?" I retorted.  
  
"All Father cares about is the Raven anyway." Elly mumbled, not raising his head. "'Snot like I have a chance at that."  
  
His sadness reverted my memories toward a bitter part of the past. "Elliot," I took him by the shoulders. "Don't you dare underestimate your self-worth in that manner." The rage overwhelmed my senses and moreover, some resentment was directed towards Father, for to instill such misgivings was irresponsible and unfit for any nobleman to do to his progeny.  
  
"You are a Nightray," I recall telling him. "A true-blooded Nightray. Never forget that. Chain or not, you will always be a Nightray. You never need to prove that to anyone."  
  
"How did you do it?" he demanded in a trembling voice and then I realized the boy had been on the verge of angry tears.  
  
Some time passed before I answered as an assortment of emotions, some that hadn't arisen for over a decade, overcame whatever sensible reply I would've been able to give. "By knowing where you stand," I finally replied. "And working diligently enough to ensure that no one else stands over you."  
  
I'm unsure if Elliot fully understood the meaning of my words, but he nodded. After awhile, he roughly rubbed his eyes across the back of his sleeve, took my hand, and we returned to the manor.  
  
Elliot has never brought up the subject of the Raven to me since then.


	10. IX. Echo

  
The slip of a girl signifies but a slip of a shadow, perhaps, but, to be quite frank, I was perturbed that Vincent should have Echo to serve as his personal valet. Everything about her reeked of impropriety, once I recognized her presence around the Nightray manor. Her sartorial taste was a cross between a circus dollop and a child's dollie (instead of a proper humble servant's attire); her passivity and demureness unsettling rather than decorous (once one actually notices her); and, furthermore, a young man Vincent's age should not be keeping a woman like Echo for such personal daily assistance without also calling her wife. Even if relations between the two were strictly innocent, the scandal of this pairing was too much for me.

I've voiced my concerns to Vincent about his choice of help, but he merely smirked and castigated me for being an old man with old man sensibilities and how "crass" it was for me to encroach upon his choice in servants with such criticisms. During my first conversation with the young woman a few days later, while she was on her way to run errands for her master, I struck up a small interrogation concerning how she viewed her relations with Vincent, trying hard not to make any unwarranted insinuations as to the purpose behind my questioning.

Her reply: "Master Vincent is my master and I am only his servant. Why should Echo view him in any other way?"

The pure flatness of her words was both disturbing yet reassuring. Certainly I could not assume any grievous misconduct between the two judging by the calmness of her answer.


	11. X. Claude Nightray

  
Out of all the births of my fellow siblings, I recall Claude's the most vividly, particularly since on the night of his birth, I thought my mother was going to die. I was ten years old then, and in my memory, whenever Mother was "expecting," she always fell deathly ill and the results would be terrible and leave the house draped in sadness for days (she had miscarried twice during my childhood and one of those times had been unfortunately close to the unborn infant's due date). By the age of ten I had associated this "expectation" with some dreadful illness that made Mother swell up to ungodly proportions and rendered her bedridden and sickly. My governess explained to me vaguely how children came into the world but that only added to my innocent horror, imagining my mother's stomach exploding and expelling some sort of demon babe.

So on the night my first younger brother arrived, I was anxiously curled up in a corner of the parlor room, not paying attention to the book I was reading and instead, plotting out ways in my head to rescue my mother from her "expectation." I didn't know exactly how I was going to go about this, but approached my parents' room with a determined plot to do _something_ , hearing shouts and screams that struck terror into my little self. I hesitated at the doorway as those sounds lessened, trying to muster some sort of bravery needed to barge in, when the door opened and the midwife stuck her head out.

"What are you doing?" she demanded and I could hear these screeching sounds that were simply unnatural, until then they softened and my mother's voice called my name.

I wanted to flee at that very moment, when I saw Father appear in the threshold, looking quite tired but smiling and taking my hand, informing me that I finally had a new little brother.

 _Well,_ I had thought, somewhat reluctantly, as I eyed that wrinkled red thing tucked in my Mother's bare arms, _it's no demon, but perhaps he'll turn out all right._


	12. XI. Ernest Nightray

  
Gambling and other games of chance had never appealed to me. Ernest, much to my distaste, took to the tables as a pastime while he was a youth at Lutwidge (disappointing institution; it's sad that I am the only Dodgson's man in the family). It was much to the family's misfortune that this scourge had gone unnoticed for so long. Claude first recognized Ernest's nightly engagements and followed him to the dens; not wanting to upset our parents with this news, he wrote to my mansion in the south. At the time, political matters at Pandora rendered my father into an intense amount of frustration, which translated into their home-life and affected Mother's moods as well.

Ernest was never the most studious of characters, and I had to witness his debauchery myself before taking action. After disguising my personage as a foreign baronet and travelling homeward, I, too, tracked my younger brother to the seediest of establishments, and watched him eat away at his monthly allowance in a matter of hours; the thought horrified me, and the only way to put a stop to this downward spiral was to take action at the tables myself. Placing myself at the card table where he sat, I engaged in several rounds of high-stakes Vingt-etun.

I refuse to say exactly the methods I used to tip the stakes in my favor (a tactical secret that most covert officers must master), but I managed to win back almost all of Ernest's losses. Still dressed at the baronet, Ernest declared me to be a cheat and (though I was), I denied it. That led, inevitably, to a scuffle where I managed\ to give Ernest a good crack across the face and purposely set the establishment ablaze. Dragging my beaten brother back to my cloaked carriage, I revealed myself to him and berated his behavior as we fled the scene of the crime.

The damages brought the den to ruin, so to speak. After Ernest's broken jaw healed (he lied to my parents, saying some commoners had attempted to mug him in town), he started to become more diligent in his work. I believe my intervention had saved him from further dissolution.


	13. XII. The Bloody Black Rabbit

  
One of the questions I am asked most while serving abroad from curious foreigners is, inevitably, about our country's Chains. The phenomenon of the Abyss is strangely localized to our global region, and though several neighboring nations have witnessed the existence of the Chains and contractors running amok amongst their populations, only our countrymen have had the scientific ambition, military knowledge, and political organization to establish Pandora as an institution dedicated to Chain research and capture. In most other nations, unfortunately, Chains wreck havoc and have to be violently subdued by government-assigned squadrons; and one of the most delicate positions our nation is faced with is guarding the secret of contracting Chains.

His Ambassadorship has had to deal with many a fraught political situation concerning the attainment of Chains by an ally nation. Yet our reluctance is completely justifiable. The security of our global position relies on our ability to tame Chains. If this information is ever disseminated across our borders, who knows what rival  
kingdoms or power-hungry madmen may do? The situation would unleash the dogs of war and conquest across the world.

Knowing this, I realize how pertinent my occupation is, on both the public and private fronts, and, in keeping with the Nightray tradition, my missions are not purely diplomatic. As such, most do not involve the spilling of blood as much as it involves _the destruction of information_. Last I was sent out, was not to assassinate a person, (the number of people I've slain is surprisingly few, considering what insiders to my covert identity assume about my position) but to kill an idea.

And so I watched the stacks of books blacken and curl, the smoke rising through the broken rifts in the ceiling. I heaped more fuel to the flames and the fire spread, eagerly, quickly, lapping up parchment and ink, vellum and leather. The conflagration lasted for most of the night, and when it ended, I crushed the smoking ashes and smoldering remains, to be sure all of the works were completely and utterly wiped out.

That was the last of the infamous library of Agon. All of its historical books about Chains and their sightings were no more.

Picking up a half-ruined, charred scroll, I unrolled it to read: _"The first sighting of the Bloody Black Rabbit was on the 17th of June, 18— in the Urle Mountains of Braline…"_

The parchment crumbled between my hands. Out of all known Chains, no foreigner should know anything about the Bloody Black Rabbit.

It is too dangerous.


	14. XIII. Isla Yura

  
"Young Lord Frederic Nightray, I presume?"  
  
A bare hand touched my shoulder, which gave me quite the start. Certain customs I was unused to in this foreign society, particularly the lack of gloved palms during social events; among the circles I run in at home, one would never see a gentleman without a fitted pair of kidskin gloves: to do without them at a gathering was a mark of uncouthness.

Upon turning around, wine glass in hand, I nearly bumped foreheads with the shallow-looking fellow and took a step backwards. Again, some customs I needed to become adjusted to…

"Pardon me," I excused myself, giving a nod of the head. "And you are…?" I had been twenty-five, still rough around the edges when it came to distant excursions from my mother country, and it was my first mission to this land in particular. Their people had suffered a massive earthquake around the time of the Tragedy, and I was attending a function with His Ambassadorship to commemorate the rebuilding of one of their nation's cherished monuments, which had toppled during the catastrophe.

I couldn't help but stare at those long, curved fingernails as the gentleman flounced forward. His too-bright eyes pinned down on me in the most discomforting manner as he continued his introduction.

"Isla Yura," he said, extending that same naked hand in my direction. Out of obligation, I shook it, and could feel his clammy skin through the thin leather of my glove. "Scholar, scientist, and head archivist to the national library." Upon grasping my hand, Yura took the opportunity to further shorten the distance between us. "You are the Junior Assistant to the Head Delegate to His Ambassadorship, aren't you? I've heard so much about you."

His breath smelled uncomfortably of herring and wine. I tried to maintain composure and disengage my hand from his; unfortunately, Yura remained quite firm, and he then placed his other, damp palm to top of mine to entrap my limb between them.

"Heir to the Nightray Dukedom, I heard. Oh yes, and your father, a brilliant pioneer in Chain research."

"I-indeed." I glanced around and spotted my superior on the far side of the ballroom. "Excuse me," I said in a tense tone, "I believe I am being summoned." In a move that seemed more a yank than a forceful withdrawal, I reclaimed my hand and immediately departed to seek the company of the rest of the delegation.

Thankfully, that was the only encounter I had with Isla Yura that evening. My glove remained suspiciously dampened from that untoward encounter, however, and I ended up discarding the pair from my wardrobe entirely.


	15. XIV. Shelly Rainsworth

  
The Rainsworth women are known to be a tour-de-force in the sphere of politics: there is an expression that us diplomats use to describe their behavior: "silken touch, iron fan."

Lady Shelly certainly fit this description quite aptly, yet unlike her mother, the formidable Cheryl, of whom you could sense the metal core of her personality prevalent in her every move, Lady Shelly floated, benevolently, like snowfall upon Winter Solstice's Eve. But, very much like the cold weather, she could suddenly change from light and delicate, to howling and frigid, or transform her presence to become suddenly pressing in much the same way a blizzard's snowdrifts can bury a man alive unexpectedly.  
  
I was paying her a social call for tea, as I was wont to do every few months. She was suffering again from one of her spells of illness. Consumption, rumor had it, a life-long condition that will eventually claim her end.  
  
That was not the last time we visited, but it certainly remained significant, because that was the moment I realized something very saddening about Lady Shelly's situation.  
  
"So good of you to visit," she murmured serenely from her seat at the tea table. More than ever, her wan visage had taken an unearthly quality in its paleness, as if she was a fairy from the moon more than a flesh-and-blood woman.

She pressed her hand into mine in greeting. She had invited me to confer about some important matters that touched upon one of the darker ends of the Nightray duties. I expected us to meet alone, as usual, but was surprised to find young Lady Sharon serving us tea.

In one of the flashes of insight one gets when one feels quite connected to the threads of fate and chance that control us all, I knew, glancing over at little Lady Sharon pouring out our beverage, that this meeting was not only to discuss business matters, but it was also my official introduction to Lady Shelly's eventual replacement.

Kissing the back of her hand respectfully, all I could think of was how very much like porcelain it felt in its smoothness, in its hard veneer, and ultimately, in its frailty.


	16. XV. Gruda Glooner

  
Glooner entered Dodgson's Point Military Academy one year after I enrolled. A large-shouldered, ungainly lad whose family managed to rise above their inferior stock (his maternal grandfather was of the merchant class who made their fortune in oceanic shipping, his mother then married upwards to a minor viscount), he stood a head above the rest of his cohort. Youthly awkwardness notwithstanding, Glooner proved to be an admirable marksman on the field and came under notice from my fellows when he snagged the coveted Louis Chauchat Prize for long-range shooting at the end of his first year.

The Glooner House maintained a neutral position in the crossroads of alliances between the Four Great Noble Houses; because of the increasing wealth of the Glooner family, and the ambitions of their patriarch, however, they sought out some sort of fellowship with the upper rankings. Glooner became a part of my eating club when he became an upperclassman; apparently, his father had pulled strings to establish an opportunity to mingle with his betters.

Eating clubs, for those unfamiliar with the concept, are strictly-regulated dining halls that Dodgson's Point employs to lift the wheat from the chaff, so to speak. Anyone from any social status could enroll at Dodgson's, and a sense of egalitarianism prevailed for the first two years of schooling. Once men hit their final years,  
however, divisions were established between cadets, especially as certain fellows became selected for officer's grooming or specialized training. I belonged to the most selective of the eating clubs, and I arched my eyebrows to see Glooner making his way across the tables to where I sat. His blunt manner and humble disposition appealed to me, though, and we became fast friends until his graduation.

That day was drizzling when he told me in my study that his father had vowed his house's fidelity to the Barma Dukedom. Not that we couldn't remain friends (at least he didn't swear to Vessalius), but there remained a certain tension between our Dukedoms, stemming from the Barma House's foreigner roots and from their incessant need for information. And there were some secrets the Nightrays had to keep.

Glooner knew of the Barma reputation and twisted his cap in his hands like a guilty boy giving confession when he inquired, "I suppose it wouldn't be proper for us to keep in contact then?"  
  
"That doesn't change a thing," I replied smoothly, pouring another tumbler of scotch for the both of us. "In fact, to celebrate your commencement, I propose a hunting party on my estate. The grouse are particularly plentiful this year."  
  
He smiled in relief as we clinked our glasses.  
  
Once he had left, I made arrangements to put a tail on his person. One could never be too careful with a Barma lackey, even if he was also a Dodgson's man and a former friend.


	17. XVI. William West and Philippe West

  
I previously mentioned a hatred for gambling; close enough to that is foolish financial speculation. Perhaps worse, for heedless speculation in this sense is granted more legitimacy than a game of cards, yet can forbear far worse results.

"I apologize, good sir," I said in the most polite way possible. "But your proposal is of no interest to me." The man who had insinuated himself at my table during Marquise Isabella Brisbois's annual autumnal gala was a speculator, and worse than that, he was an upstart member of the bourgeoisie: one of those who believe that their new money can overcome any element of distinction that has been honed by the aristocracy for countless generations. I could tell by the fashion of his cuffs (unstarched) and the cut of his coat (at least two seasons back), the he was not up to par in the circles in which I normally run, but had that strong desire to appear that he did.

I moved away from his diagramed parchment, which he had unscrolled and began to elaborate upon enthusiastically. Instead, he turned to the couple across from me, a lanky and dignified Earl William West and his wife. As the shameless speculator started up his conversation with Earl West, I turned my conversation to his  
spouse.

Unusually enough for the occasion, the Earl and his young bride had a curious third: their newborn son. Over the meal, the Earl had explained, rather sheepishly, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, that the couple were close friends of the Marquise and were currently her guests in the castle. Lady Angelique could not bear leaving little Philippe upstairs in the care of the wetnurse while they attended the party.

Personally, I thought that the child's presence made the couple appear to be too attached to be proper and said so forthrightly.

"Well, I'm sure your opinions will change once you have a child of your own, Lord Frederic," Lady Angelique replied gracefully as she rocked the standing cradle situated by the table.

I peered over the basket's edge. Philippe, pink-faced and swaddled in silks and lace, was a smidgen of a thing with a black tuft of hair on his head. Graciously, I commented, "He is certainly well-behaved, I'd say."  
  
At my words, the infant roused himself sleepily. Upon looking at our expressions, he beamed up toothlessly and cooed. "Go on, my Lord," Lady Angelique offered warmly. After a moment, I offered a finger toward Philippe, who grabbed it mightily in his tiny fist, emitting a delighted squeal.  
  
"Well, then," I said gently, feeling a tad bit more affectionate, "at least the boy knows how to greet his elders."


	18. XVII. The House of Fiona

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The question was: "It is said that the Nightrays had some sort of affiliation with the orphans of Fiona.  
> What were you personal experiences with some of them such as James, John, and Helen? More importantly,  
> what about Sister Fiona herself?"
> 
> Head canon fact: Judeo-Christian faiths as we know them do not exist in the world of Pandora Hearts. Instead,  
> people believe in various gods, demons, and angels (some even worship the Abyss and its Chains). A subsection  
> of the population believe in the "Outsider faith" i.e. the old religion that once flourished in the country and is still  
> worshiped widely in other parts of the world; that is where much of the Judeo-Christian imagery comes from though their roots and meanings are not exactly the same. Besides the "Outsider faith" there are many other  
> smaller cults and explorations into the occult i.e. – Yura's cult, the cult from the Caucus Race.

  
The House of Fiona was initially Mother's proposal: she had always been the most religious one in the family, since she and her relations are the adherents to the Outsider faith, an ancient religion had existed hundreds of years before the manifestation of the Abyss (and how can one conceive of that nowadays?). Throughout her life, Mother had championed causes for the downtrodden, and upon encountering a trio of youngsters in the street one day, she was so touched by their predicament that she proposed to her salon friends for them to advocate for these street children somehow.  
  
Upon recognizing the latest sentimental affectation of hers, Father suggested that an orphanage would be built in cooperation with a nunnery in league with a minor sect in the Outsider faith. I considered his agreement indulgent as best, especially Father had never expressed interest in charitable matters before. Sister Fiona he had recruited specially from a reclusive nunnery on the eastern border; I investigated her background for Pandora's dossier, and, interestingly enough, the woman had not been a devout her entire life, but took the veil after the deaths of her husband and child at the hands of Chains. Perhaps that was why she was fond of taking in orphans of that persuasion.  
  
I visited the Home once upon Father's request that some sealed Pandora files from our research division to be delivered to the Sister herself, though I never encountered any of the residents myself. I wondered, off-handedly at the time, why Father would transmit these records in particular to the orphanage, and can only assume they were to assist these good Samaritans in pursuit of their worthy cause…


	19. XVIII. The Raven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The question was: "Let's talk about the Raven. Namely his rejection of you and your brothers in favor of a  
> non-blood Nightray."
> 
> This reply was made by Fred before the events of Lucid Dreamers, which centers around Gilbert's trial with the  
> Raven and its aftermath.

  
I prefer not to answer any details about my personal experience with the Raven, but I can give you my exact unbending opinion of the Chain: the creature is vile, violent, twisted, wicked, and an abomination upon our house.

And we need him, undeniably so.

Do not consider my opinion that of extremes. The bitter truths of history remind us that immediately after the Tragedy of Sablier, our nation was plunged into utter chaos. Please take a moment to consider the state of affairs and realize how dire our people's circumstances were: the monarchy and several of the prominent noble houses had been assassinated at the hands of the traitorous Baskervilles, disorder and lawless rampage swept throughout the land by vagabonds, while noble families on the fringe of the power structure schemed underhandedly or fought outright to stake out their position in the new order, and, most gravely, neighboring countries eyed our chaos with rapacious greed as their armies saber-rattled with determination to claim our territory. Until the Traveler King arrived (a minor distant cousin from the royal family) and established a renewed sense of order, there was no peace, no law, and – most importantly – no control over the ungodly beasts – the Chains – that swarmed out from the depths of the Abyss.  
  
My father recounted bloody stories that his father told him of the horror of having those devils wreck havoc upon the land. Only a few people outside of Sablier had the ability to control the beasts, using sorcery to create the blood amulets Pandora uses now; and it was only through the cooperation of the Barma family and the  
Nightray family that we were able to hone this methodology. Of course, many innocents had to be sacrificed to Chains in order to accomplish this – I will not deny that Nightray hands had participated in these unfortunate incidents.

I consider their loss to be rather minor, actually, in consideration of the good that was accomplished. Besides which, those were only common folk, who have no consequence to us anyway.

Yet the witnesses to history have never been kind to our family. Unlike the Barmas, who rose to prominence to take control over Pandora, the Vessalius House, who had been hailed for its heroic ancestor Jack Vessalius, or the Rainsworth House, whose political iron hand helped assuage the enemies that lurked at our borders, the Nightray House became marked in blood and deception for our help in establishing the Traveler King's place in the nation. Understand the cruelty of that fate: we, the family who helped the new King assert his throne, were offered up like lambs upon the altar of public opinion.

We deserve better! "We should be the men," as Father constantly told me throughout my childhood, "who should be praised and valued for our fidelity to the nation. Not those vainglorious Vessalius'!"

Imagine that! Please, dear reader, imagine the unfair ignominy! And this weight, carried through the generations: first bequeathed upon my grandfather's shoulders, to be cast onto my father's back, to be shackled upon my neck…  
  
I…. I apologize for that outburst. My tongue babbles on… I've gone on a tangent from the question at hand…  
  
The Raven.  
  
 _[sighs]_  
  
Yes, the Raven, the only Chain who had refused any contract offered to it for the last hundred years… the Nightrays had to maintain our influence somehow, especially since it soon became apparent that despite the royal family's control over the nation, the royals have become figureheads in comparison to the true beacons of power in this world: those who control the Doorways to the Abyss.

That Doorway we now control was going to be destroyed and buried, once it became known that it was impenetrable because of the Raven's presence at the threshold. My grandfather, however, attained that one for ourselves, believing that someday, one of us would be able to enter it and claim our rightful place in this  
kingdom by taming that impossible Chain.

And that someday has been delayed, again and again, a burden upon us all.

After my own ordeal, Mother pleaded with Father not to send anyone else through that portal of darkness. He gave Claude the option of whether he wanted to enter or not, actually, and Claude at first refused. Ernest was given the same proposition, but, headstrong as he was, submitted to undergo the trial for himself. His admission surprised us all, for Ernest was never the sort to engage in such… strenuous pursuits. I suspect that his peers at Lutwidge had played a role in pressuring him to establish himself as a "true" noble by undergoing the ordeal.  
  
I remember Ernest, crawling out of the Doorway sobbing like a child and clinging to Mother's robes in the same manner he did when he was a toddler, shaking and blubbering.   
  
I remember Claude, feeling shamed that his younger brother suffered at the cost of his own negation, offered to go next. I took him aside privately and begged him not to as long as Father gave him that allowance.  
  
Unfortunately by then, our father, instead of pitying Ernest, amassed a sort of resentful rage and berated him for his weakness, and Claude to his defense had retorted that Father should shift his rage at him instead of Ernest, who at least made an attempt.  
  
I had five years of Dodgson's training under my belt before entering. Ernest, to his credit, had been an athletic fellow at school. Claude the pendant, the studious one, who was being trained to be an academic in the history of our nation and spent more time with his nose between books than doing anything else…gods, we were all fools.  
  
I remember how the servants dragged Claude's nearly-dying body out from between those stone pillars. The amount of blood was frighteningly copious.  
  
I remember Mother praying beside Claude's bedside, and baby Elly being ushered upstairs to the nursery by the wetnurse. I remember Father, upon exiting Claude's bedchamber, made a glance down the hallway at their departing forms and I thought to myself-  
  
 _Not Elly, Father. Not Elly._  
  
And then first ward came to us. Vincent, that strange child with the maligned stare.  
  
That demon child was, in a twisted sense, our miracle. Or so Father claimed, as long as we found his lost brother, the mysterious Gilbert.  
  
So, in the end, I had to resign myself to the necessary circumstances. Even if the Raven went to a cur from the streets under the graces of our name, at least, finally, our family could find some sort of relief from the curse that had tormented us all.  
  
And, watching Gilbert from afar for so many years, perhaps I must convince myself that he is worthy, worthier than our precious Elliot, worthier than my dear Vanessa….  
  
No, I can't say that, truly. Is Gilbert qualified? Perhaps. Will he ever be _worthy_? Never.  
  
No matter — this is not the first time we have sacrificed a commoner for the greater good, after all.  
  
  



	20. XIX. Leo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This ficlet is connected to the previous two: 17 The House of Fiona and 18 The Raven.

  
The House of Fiona was a place of charity, and admittedly, research. I do not deny that in the past we Nightrays have engaged in less than ethical procedures in the name of crown and country, and I suspect this will not be the last incident to add to our Ledger of Deeds to be judged during the end days. But for all of the young faces I had avoided during the only occasion I had visited the orphanage, news about the unfortunates reach me regularly, whenever I meet with Father to discuss the Dukedom's assets, publicly-known and otherwise.

On this occasion, however, the news of Elliot's new manservant startled me. Entering the manor, I first spotted the boys playing chess in the parlor room. The servant boy was an unkempt horror. Though his dress was passable enough, his hair gave him the appearance of a savage northerner, so much so that I had to stop in my tracks at the open doorway to stare.

Elly, seeing me, came over and gave me a clasp on the shoulder while he excitedly presented his new manservant.

"This is my big brother, Fred," he said to the shaggy mess beside him.

"Lord Frederic," I corrected stiffly.

Upon introductions, the scamp displayed the rudest behavior toward me, refusing to stand in my presence and having the nerve to offer his hand (as if we were equals!) when he stated his name.

No surname, I immediately noticed. Meaning that the child was a commoner. And, judging by the accent, a villager from the central plains. Worse and worse.

"Where was your last place of employment, boy?"

"I had none. I've come from the House of Fiona, my lordship," Leo answered, swinging his legs (swinging his legs, the nerve!) from his seated position at the table.

I arched an eyebrow and wrapped a protective arm around Elly. "Please excuse us," I said hurriedly before ushering my brother from the room.

"Are you out of your senses, Elly-?" I hissed once I had shut the door to the dining hall.

"Not you too." Elliot scowled and crossed his arms. "Ernest and Claude were fine enough with bringing me to the House to choose a servant before Father yelled at them about it. But after our last visit to the orphanage he suddenly changed his mind. So I thought he already told you too."

"In letters, he mentioned a new addition to the staff. But that…. that person, Elly, is not staff material."

Running a hand over my face, I emitted a long sigh and inwardly cringed at the hypocrisy. For years, Father had warned me about keeping standards, that the Nightrays were being held under scrutiny since our position in society was so perilous. And didn't this soured reputation hinder us already? Wasn't that the reason why Ernest and Claude courted no ladies, and no one had approached Vanessa with an offer to visit? Wasn't this the reason why Father suggested that I go make myself useful in foreign service rather than stay at home? Wasn't this why Mother was so adamant about displays of public good, to hone ourselves favor in the eyes of a critical nobility?

I approached Father with my growing concerns about Elliot's wellbeing. Obviously, this ruffian bodes no good for him.

"You… _approve_ of the boy?" I inquired, keeping the disbelief out from my voice. Father, who had taught me that even the scullery maids had to have a pedigree before entering our home, had fallen so far below the proper standards for the Nightray reputation. First, the adoption of the wards, and now, entertaining the thought of a village boy serving under Elliot? And not any village boy, but one from the House of Fiona…?

"Certainly. Didn't you know that Leo had saved Elliot's life in Sablier?" Father explained from his seated position in his study. "They were on the search for some missing children, and Elliot had bumped his head and lost consciousness. No matter what you may think of his status, he at least deserves some recognition for his  
good deed."

"That may be the case, but will every good deed result in picking up more dirt on our good name?"

I noted how oddly sinister my father appeared during this conversation: seeing him positioned in the shadows of the study, as the lamplight tilted in a peculiar fashion that obscured the upper regions of his face. A villainous look, almost, akin to cheap theater street performances where the evildoers wore a mask that obscured his expression from the world. I nearly laughed at the foolish comparison. Father, a villain?

Another evil alternative presented itself in my mind. Could Father be succumbing to the temptation of the beast that slumbered below us? That foul Raven….

I presented my next question in a hard tone. "Father, does this have to do with contracting the Raven too?"  
  
"No. But the child is of great importance to this household in a similar manner. You know the meaning of sacrifice," Father muttered. "Of duty. Of service. It is ingrained by the very swords we wield upon our chests."  
  
"But what does that have to do with wallowing alongside such filth? I don't understand. The orphans—" I paused, let my eyes close for a moment and then continued, "Maintaining the orphans are a necessity, I know.  
  
But bringing one of them here as if we ran the charity house from the manor and not from Sablier…."   
  
"Frederic," Father said, rising to his feet. He approached and embraced me. "You must trust that I only have the Nightray honor in mind."  
  
The touch surprised me (Father was never the affectionate one) and I froze, unsure of how to interpret the gesture. "Our honor at the cost of our current reputation?" I murmured, clenching my fists.  
  
Father whispered in my ear, "I swear, my dear son, if all goes to plan, the Nightray name will become the greatest in our nation's history." He let go and said, "Soon, you'll not feel the need to spend all of your time lackeying after His Ambassadorship like an exile, or sneaking in the shadows to earn the fear in others' eyes. We  
are so close, Fred. Your grandfather would be so proud."  
  
"He would. But he's dead, Father, driven to death by obsession." I eyed him warily and Father narrowed his eyes and pounded his gloved fist upon the desk.  
  
"You have no right to judge," he snapped. "You, out of all my children, should understand the depths of our pain."  
  
"I do," I said, lowly, and exited before he could say another word. "I'll stay in the townhouse for tonight," I added briskly. "And we'll meet again tomorrow to settle accounts."  
  
Honest to gods, I was unsure how to interpret Father's behavior. How much he had changed over the years! Like how a knit shirt can fade from dark to grey and become unraveled over time, my father had begun to fray. The thought frightened me, seeing this man who had guided me in honor and in discipline start to crumble.  
  
Was Grandfather like this too, near the end? Will this portend toward my own future, if the Raven's stubbornness continued to plague us all?  
  
Exiting the study, I walked past the parlor room where the village boy sat, reading. I studied his small frame in the firelight, discerningly, as if any hidden abnormality would emerge upon my silent invocation.  
  
In the flickering light, Leo motioned his head sideways to face me, and for a moment, I caught a flash of his eyes through the thick glass of his spectacles.  
What an extraordinary color they were.

"Lord Frederic," he said softly. "Are you taking your leave this evening?"

"Yes," I replied shortly. I was going to end my remarks there, but could not help but add, "It is respectful for a servant to stand in the presence of one's betters."

"Oh." Leo stood, put his book on the table and even gave a little bow. "My apologizes, my lordship."

Giving a grunt, I tightened my cape and departed.

That scamp will come to no good to our family, I suspect. I only pray that Father hasn't lost sight of what remains important.


	21. XX. The Baskerville House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The question submitted was "What can you tell me about the Baskervilles?"

Traitors, the lot of them, may they all rot into the bloody Abyss where they had sprung, the foul-skinned, chicken-livered scum–!  
  
Ahem, pardon my tongue. Many apologies.   
  
 _[Sighs]_

Long ago, there was… a history between the Nightray and the Baskerville Houses. According to my father, our ancestor Duke Raymond Nightray had close ties to the head of the Baskerville House, as enigmatic as they are, and the royalty believed that those red-cloaked men were key to the stability of the nation. The Baskervilles, as far as we can assemble from the lost Pre-Tragedy records, held ancient superstitious rituals to maintain stability of the Abyss (though the exact details remained obscured even today).  
  
There were tales of wicked, monstrous things: incest and human sacrifice and miscegenation with those beastly Chains (I shudder to contemplate even a fraction of these rumours to be true.)  

It was our misfortune to remain associated with that fallen house after the Tragedy, because during that by-gone era, our House served as the King’s left hand, monitoring their crooked ways from getting out of hand.

Yet  _we_  were the first to fall after the royal family was assassinated by those red savages, along with the entirety of Sablier, before the whole city fell into darkness… and were further shamed when Jack Vessalius took out family back in pity and burdened us with that dysfunctional gate to the Abyss….

If I could go back in time, if I could do one thing, I wish I could have stayed the hand of those Baskervilles before they ruined my family, my nation and slayed the last High King. 

I would personally tear that Glen Baskerville apart, limb from limb.  
  
 


	22. XXI. The Buffoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The question submitted was, "Any thoughts and opinion on Duke Rufus Barma, Lord Frederic?"

Barma, that bouncing buffoon? He is peevish, paranoid, and, worst of all,  _of foreign extraction_. He runs Pandora with a closed fist. One department doesn’t know what any of the others are doing and the establishment is filled with incompetence to the gills.

Speaking as a military man, the whole organization could use a straightening out from top to bottom. I suppose, being part of the… shadow division… I have my own biases at play and information that I do not have the freedom to elaborate upon. But, for the record, I disapprove of the limitations Barma places because of his own greedy preoccupation with keeping his little fiefdom inside the organization alive.

Plus, the man has  _dreadful_  fashion sense. 


	23. XXII. Sister

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The question asked was, "Any memories of when your sister was a baby, Frederic?"

Many, oh I have many of my spitfire little sister. But to properly know her, I suppose we must delve into her origins.

Nessa is what the old folklore calls the “moon angel’s child” and Mother named her accordingly. The root of her name comes from Esther, meaning “star” in the ancient tongue, and the suffix “van” means “of” – hence, Vanessa is, literally, the child of the stars, or the young offspring of the moon itself, according to ancient mythology. As we know, when the moon angels gave birth to the stars, they were called “wee vanessas”, which is also how we come to the well-known lullaby “Good-night Nessa” (a song that my own wee Vanessa loved to hear over and over again).

Before Vanessa was born, Mother weaved a spell for her birth. Now, Mother is a superstitious type. She believed in quaint rustic folk spells and old wives’ tales linked to her childhood out in the the country estates, far from the sophistication that was brought upon her marriage into the Nightray family. Father always indulged her whimsical pendants and “bush witch” remedies. After Ernest, I recall as a youth how she started a regimen that promised her next child would share her gender (after three boys, I suspected she wanted more docile progeny!)

She drank the prescribed tonics and herbs and prayed to the proper gods; though I was at Dodgson’s Point as a cadet at the time, during holidays I recalled her basking out on the veranda in the summer night’s moonshine (for the angels of the moon were feminine, and she wanted their touch to bless her womb).

During her pregnancy, Mother was bedridden with pains for several months. “The babe kicks like a stallion,” pronounced the family physician, “I refrain from acting dismissive towards the natural arts, Lady Nightray, but I doubt the moon’s heard your prayers.”

Mother snapped fiercely, “She kicks like a Nightray–damn you!” (Mother rarely swears or throws a fit, so I suspect that bit of the fiery pain caused during Nessa’s gestation transplanted the seeds of her future self).

Dear Nessa was a winter child, born on the longest night of the year. Like with Claude and Ernest, Father was there in the room next door, pacing and sweating, and I was there as well – it is cowardly for a man to be driven off by the screams of his beloved woman when she is committed in doing a female’s greatest duty toward her family.

The midwife emerged after many hours, a satisfied smile on her face: “Angels bless her,” she announced. “She’s a star babe.”

And that describes Nessa perfectly: small and fierce and bright, she is, and she will burn and burn even during the darkest of hours.


	24. XXIII. Comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The question asked was, "Did any of your younger siblings seek comfort in your presence when they were faced with night terrors, Lord Frederic?"

My time in my childhood home has a significant disconnect with my siblings: Claude was not born until I was ten years old, and all of my subsequent brothers and sister came soon after. My years at Dodgson’s Point came soon after Claude’s birth, and then, came the finalization of my… particular training skills… and subsequent education in diplomatic politics and international affairs. I was twenty-five years old by the time Elly was brought into the world—old enough for my youngest brother to be my own son (and more than once together we had been mistaken as such).

As a result, for much of my life I have felt like an only child, and my younger siblings more like my peers at school, perhaps, or children of a close colleague to foster and observe, rather than knowing that they are of my blood as well. I maintained my own household and kept to my own affairs once I came of age, traveling as part of my duties both familial and national.

Perhaps because a majority of my life has been spent in this manner, my perspective of my siblings is unintimate or distant in ways that I think they do not share amongst themselves. I know, all in all, I am meandering around a simple question: whether I was there for Claude, Ernest, Vanessa, or Elliot when they needed some sort of… familial comfort. My father, I understand all too well, can be a cold and disciplined man, and Mother, while kinder and gentler, was a busy nobleman and wife of an esteemed and powerful man, which left her duties as a caretaker more in the hands of nannies and governesses—such is the ways of nobility, understand. I preface this all so you do not judge them, nor judge me.

I was not there for my brothers and sister in ways that smaller folk may be. I hold no memories of everyday playfighting or carousing. I did not take them to festivals or national celebrations. I was not there during childish arguments or squabbles.

I was present for all of their birthdays and name days and Coming of Age ceremonies (except Elly’s, which won’t be for another few years) — and with four siblings that is quite a lot. I was (or plan to be) there for every graduation ceremony from Lutwidge. I taught Vanessa how to ride and gave Elly his first wooden sword. I was by Claude’s side when he told Father he would not undergo the Raven’s Trial and I pulled Ernest out of that underground gambling ring before he had sunken too far.

But night terrors? As far as I can recollect, none of my siblings suffered them except Claude, after he was forced (he may have volunteered to go, but I will always think of it as coerced) to undergo his Trial. He suffered a great deal after he entered the Gate, and remained bedridden with his injuries for months. The psychological scars were worse and lasted much longer.

I was at home for the hunting season (grouse is always better in the north than the south where I resided), and hadn’t noticed trouble with Claude until my second week in, when I heard screaming from the west wing. Instinctually, I investigated to see the doctor emerge from his rooms.

“The demon bird haunts him,” our old family physician explained with a shake of his head. “I’ve given him some laudanum to ease his mind.”

I never approved those sort of drugs. The next day, I asked Nessa during our morning ride how long this has been happening.

“A long time, Fred,” she replied, somewhat guilty, as if she had been to blame for his troubles. Nessa gazed off toward the hills with a contemplative air. “Father pretends he doesn’t have them,” she said in a quiet tone. “And Ernest teases him. He thinks that it proves Claude’s coward nature. I don’t,” she added with a sigh. “Claude believes him, though.”

The next evening, I did what an older brother would do: show up at his suite with a bottle of cognac and a box of cigars. “I’m in need of good company,” I told him, “there has been a lack in decent society in my time away.”

Claude scoffed (he always had a reluctance to socialize with me, since I am the polar opposite of him in many respects), but I elbowed my way past his door and settled before the parlor fireplace. “Your studies in history going well?” I ventured, knowing that would pique his interest the most (oh, Claude, the squirrelly, diligent scholar!). Sure enough, he delved into the lore of the country and his investigation into the relationship between Sablier and the Abyss (“Father’s also asking about this lately,” he boasted), until late into the night. He excused himself to bed, but, oddly enough, allowed me to continue to read through his collection while he retired.

I stayed, sipping my drink and flipping through the latest chapters about a supposed bloody lapin from the mountains when the shouts were heard. I peered around the doorway to see him muttering in bed. Night terrors for a man of age would be shameful to admit, true, but very real nonetheless (I have known soldiers with these same experiences—they referred to this as “battle fatigue”).

In cases such as these, I have learnt it was best not to wake the subject suffering, but to wait until they wake themselves, and sat by the bed until, sure enough, Claude stood up and even then, his eyes darted about and his frame shuddered in ways that I knew he was still in the dream, though his eye remained open.

Some minutes passed with no sound but his gasped breathing and then, he leaned forward, the sweat profuse all over his body, and he made a sound much like retching. He pressed the heels of both hands to his eyes and then, turned and moaned, before I placed my hand upon his shoulder, whispering, “Claude, Claude…”

Wide dark eyes flickered and registered my presence. “Wha…”

“I’m Fred. Your brother,” I assured him, feared that the demons were still in his view. “I am your brother. I’m here.”

A moment passed, and he paled entirely before collapsing. I wondered if I did the right thing, having stayed and thought to ring the bell for the doctor or fetch the bottle of laudanum from the bedside table, until Claude’s thin hand clutched my sleeve.

A strange stirring in my heart overcame me, and let him grab hold of me, and grip the front of my jacket with both hands and in a burst of emotion, bury his dark head into my front. Shaking sobs came from him, and I remained for a long time in this way, holding my arms around my poor brother and feeling the rasping of his breath and his voice run through me.

Much of the night passed and the sky outside was slowly turning shades of gold and red before he spoke anything more. “I am…. a fool,” he croaked. “A fool and a coward and utterly weak and helpless.”

“Brother-”

“I shouldn’t have come back.” A dead tone. “I should have let the Raven kill me. Then Father wouldn’t have been shamed to see me again.”

My hold tightened. “None of us should have come back,” I replied. “But we did. I did. So what are you going to do about that?”

Claude didn’t reply. I smiled grimly, knowing how heavy the lie weighed in my chest (I didn’t care about the damned Raven anymore—I moved on. But would it be possible to tell Claude that and have him believe me? Or at that moment, had I unlocked a part of my schoolboy self who would always believe himself to be inadequate, no matter how much I have achieved since then?)

“A Nightray is never useless,” I told him. Dawn had fully flushed out her rosy cheeks by that point and sleep was befalling my younger brother once more. I slowly disentangled myself from him and eased him back onto the bed. Tucking the sheets around him like a nursemaid, I told him, “We will always need you.”

Later that day, well beyond noon, I saw Claude again in the library. He had his nose buried in a history book, as usual, but he did lower the volume to share a look, unspoken, as I entered.

I only pray he had taken my message to heart.


	25. Frederic Nightray: Some background

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His character description from the frederic-nightray.tumbr.com
> 
> Illustration by surfacage.

Lord Frederic "Fred" Wolfgang Nightray is the heir apparent to the Nightray Dukedom. Born to Duke Barnard and Duchess Vernice, Frederic's upbringing was one of refinement and purpose. He was educated at Dodgson's Point, the finest military school in the country and at home, private tutors taught him the ways of the cloak and dagger. Disappointment hit at a young age, unfortunately, when Frederic failed his trial for the Nightray's Chain, the infamous Raven, at age fifteen, and thusly, further perpetuating his besmeared family legacy of members being unable to contract the family Chain.

Not to be discouraged, however, Frederic continued his formal education, this time dedicating himself to the arts of diplomacy and enrolling at the Liddell Institute for Foreign Studies. At age eighteen, he was assigned to become the ambassador's youngest assistant in his delegation and for the next several years, travelled the world as both diplomat and covert spy for the Four Great Noble Houses, who are currently in control of the Pandora organization. Almost a decade into his successful career abroad, Frederic was promoted to Head Delegate and Personal Secretary to His Ambassadorship.

Frederic visits his parents' manor for the appropriate family occasions, and when not engaged in his work, he resides in his own mansion in the southern part of the country. With every failure of his younger siblings to contract the Raven, however, Frederic has become more invested in securing his family's power at home, consorting frequently with his father, the Duke Nightray, and his uncle-in-law.

His closest associates and family refer to him as "Fred".


End file.
